Tyro

ty-roh
noun


Courtesy of Marcel Levy. For notes on the animals, go to Chaja, Master Showgirl.

In the Nevada State Fair's master showmanship competition, kids compete by showing every animal featured in the fair: rabbits, guinea pigs, chickens, dairy cow and steer, horses, swine, market and dairy goats, and, finally, sheep. The competition is open to the first-place winners in all the individual showmanship events.

My daughter, Chaja, took second in the rabbit competition, but with only two hours before the master showmanship, she discovered she had to step in for the first-place winner. She quickly learned how to show all the other animals, then she showed her stuff to the judges. The result?

A tyro turns champion.

1. beginner in learning; a novice.

Icebox cupcakes

"My fridge" by Dance in the Kitchen. Sketch inspired by Spill Studio.

Icebox Cupcakes

Pour cream, sugar, vanilla into bowl.

Whip.

Spoon whipped cream on top of chocolate wafers.

Stack.



Place in refrigerator.

Chill.

Wait 24 hours.

Devour.


The critics say:

Portrait inspired by "The Willoughbys" by Lois Lowry.

They're delicious!
•
They're soft like an ice cream sandwich.
•
They taste like a giant Oreo cookie.
•
Mo?

Jewels in a jar

Today The Slow-Cooked Sentence ends its four-week series highlighting moments of my family's summer vacation on the East Coast.

"Firefly" courtesy of art farmer.

It was a hot, sticky night in Delaware, and my 8-year-old son Max and I sat on the grass staring into the shadows for a sparkle in the bushes, a flicker of chartreuse in the grass. My eyes ached from staring at nothing. Then right in front of our faces a ghostly green glow burned. Faded. We saw the smokey shadow of tiny wings and body. Erased.

We were watching fireflies. For the first time.

Max tiptoed through the grass, hands cupped, poised.

“I caught one!” he cried and ran to me, opened his hands a crack, then wider.

“Ooh,” and his face fell.

Bug guts smeared his palms, glowed, glistened, a miniature shooting star smashed in mid-flight. He wiped his hands in the lawn. Now the blades of grass glowed, too.

He ran to the house for a jar. First he tried catching the fireflies directly with the jar. Metal lid clinked against glass. No luck. He returned to using his hands. Gingerly.

He caught one and transferred it to the jar. He caught another. Together in the jar, the fireflies glowed like green embers. Their flashes pushed him further into the night, into the shadows, searching for more. Far away, the sky was heavy with rain clouds and silent streaks of lightening.

Max caught a few more before the mosquitoes drove us inside. When I went to kiss him goodnight, I found him under his blanket reading by firefly light.

Check out Firefly, a nonprofit site dedicated to raising awareness about the decline of firefly populations, for amazing and magical pictures and information about this jewel of a bug.

Metamorphosis

In which I compare the life stages of a caterpillar to the development of my children:

Embryo: (Greek meaning "that which grows," "to swell, be full"). The earliest stage of development, from the time of first cell division until birth or hatching.

Each time I discovered I was pregnant I cried.

The first time tears fell for happiness because I was pregnant and had proven the doctors wrong. The second time because I was stunned with the knowledge that I carried not one embryo, but two. The final tears were shed in sadness for the freedom I believed I'd lose with the arrival of yet another baby.

But you know, this final, tiny grub hasn't been the Go-Directly-To-Jail card I feared he would be.

Larva: A young form of animal with indirect development, going through or undergoing metamorphosis.

The door banged open and my 8-year-old son Max bounced into the kitchen, panting for a drink after speeding around the block on his Razor scooter. His body was steaming.

"What's for lunch?" he asked.

"Max, you just finished breakfast a half-hour ago," I replied, wiping the stove clean of globs of oatmeal.

He whined about hunger. I complained about how stinky he was.

"I took a bath last night," he replied.

"Did you use soap?"

He shrugged, noncommittally.

"Smell your arm pits, Max," I said. "You've got stink-waves."

He shoved his nose into his pits, wrinkled his nose, and headed for the shower.

Pupa: The stage when an insect undergoes a complete metamorphosis. Different insects have different names for this period, such as chrysalis in butterflies and tumbler in mosquitoes.

My daughter, Chaja, pulled her shirt tightly across her chest and studied herself.

"When can I get a training bra?" she asked.

"When you need one," I replied.

"But when did you get one?" she insisted.

The gears in my brain halt and grind backward, slowly, reluctantly, to seventh-grade gym class. I can see myself in the locker room, back hunched as I tried to slip on my gym shirt while not exposing my naked chest where small breasts were growing, untrained. The wheels in my mind squeak, turn again, and I remember boys running their hands down a girl's back in search of the bra strap, grabbing hold of it and snapping, and the girl's happily indignant squeal over being singled out, discovered. Memories shift again and focus on me and my mother in a dressing room, teaching me how to put on a bra: Hook it in the front, spin it around and then slip the straps on.

"Mom, Mom! How old were you when you got a training bra?"

My mind's gears chugged forward.

"Twelve, maybe."

She groaned because that is a year away.

Imago: The last stage of development of an insect. It's sexually mature and, if it is a winged species, has functional wings. The imago is often referred to as the adult stage. The Latin plural of imago is imagines, and this is the term generally used by entomologists.

A long-ago conversation, remembered:

"I'm going to be Superman when I grow up," 4-year-old Max said. "Then I'll be able to fly. What are you going to be Sam?"

"I don't know. Maybe nothing. Maybe a fireman," said his twin, Sam. "Or maybe a fairy."

To read others' thoughts on the subject of adulthood, check out Sunday Scribblings.

Crepuscular

kri-pus-kyuh-lur
adjective

In the day, the web is empty.
The spider sleeps, safe and snug, in a crack in the wood.

But in the crepuscular gloom, the spider awakens
and skitters down a long strand of web.





The children watch
it stitch its torn web under the darkness of night.


All photos courtesy of Dance in the Kitchen.
Final two photos by Marcel Levy.

1. Of, pertaining to, or resembling twilight; dim.
2. (Zoology) Appearing or active at twilight.

Tastykake

The Slow-Cooked Sentence is focusing on my family's summer vacation on the East Coast for just two more Wednesdays.

Tastykakes top selling item, the Peanut Butter Kandy Kake.
The company makes 500,000 each day.

These are yummy.

Sponge cake.

Salty peanut butter.

Chocolate dipped.

Oh, my God, these are yummy. Yes, I know they're the East Coast equivalent of Ho Hos or Twinkies, but they're

so

much

better.

My husband, who grew up on Peanut Butter Kandy Kakes, and has suffered withdrawals since we came home from vacation, has researched the possibility of buying a case. That's 72 chocolate-peanutty pucks, with a shelf-life of 21 days, for $37.99. He'd have to eat 3.5 cakes a day.

"You gotta be joking," I said.

"No," came his reply.

You see, they're not sold in Nevada. Not at the 7-Eleven nor CVS Pharmacy. Not anywhere. They're back East in the Wawa. I kid you not. The Wawa. The store's name is as funny as the cakes are delicious. Can you believe people in New Jersey actually say, without a shred of laughter in their voice: "I'm going to the Wawa. Do you need anything?"

Yeah. I need another box of Tastykakes.

My safe Sam

The knee, courtesy of Dance in the Kitchen.

Sam's knees take a beating. They're scabby and torn up with road rash. The abuse began early this summer when a kid on a bike ran him over. Sam hobbled home with a bloody knee and bragging rights, for it's the rare kid who can claim to have survived a hit-and-run.

Sam follows rules, so the injustice of the accident bothered him. But as much as he loves the law, he also loves speed. He understood how a bike could barrel down the sidewalk and knock him down. In fact, he continued to burn around our block on his own bike, and re-scabbed the scab over and over.

These two parts of Sam's personality dueled it out the other day when we went school shopping. He needed a new pack for school, and after finding the right size, I asked him to choose a color: unadorned black, blue with a silhouette of a skateboarder, or a green silhouette of a BMX biker. He went back and forth for a half-hour. Finally, he made a decision.

"My favorite color's green, but I think I'll get the black one," he said.

"Why?"

"Because the snowboarder and the biker aren't wearing helmets, and that's against the law."

Wishing on chunks of space rock

A child's interpretation of Van Gogh's famous painting,
used with permission by The Arthouse Easel.

A decent sprinkling of Perseid meteors may adorn this summer night, despite the pesky moon. Lie back and watch meteors until dawn’s light washes the stars, moon and planets from the sky.

-- EarthSky's 2009 Meteor Shower Guide

With such a forecast, the kids and I spread our sleeping bags on the lawn and slept outside. In the night I woke and stared up at the few stars bright enough to outshine the city lights. I waited, appreciating the quiet. Lights streaked across the southeast sky as two meteors fell in quick succession. Two stars. Two more weeks until a new school year. Two wishes.

May my children be granted good teachers
who will challenge their minds and nurture their spirits.

• 
  

May they have strong bodies
to fight off colds, flu, and the opponent on the soccer field.

I pulled one of the kids' books out from under me and searched for more meteors. Copies of the series Percy Jackson and the Olympians by Rick Riordan were scattered among the pillows and sleeping bags. The three older kids had been rereading the five books all summer and had brought them outside to read by flashlight. Fitting, really, that they chose to read about a modern-day Perseus on the night we watched his constellation.

My eyes grew heavy and I fell asleep, only to be awakened a few hours later by moonlight. Silver shafts pierced the neighbor's apple tree. I looked up and the entire sky was spinning with faint streaks of light. I put on my glasses and the stars focused, grew still. My daughter mumbled something in her sleep and my toddler shifted and nuzzled about for my breast. I patted his back and he settled down. I sighed and waited. A short, fast meteor burned across the sky, followed by a fainter one with a tail of stardust. Two more wishes.

May my children find harmony amongst themselves
so their bickering and tattling will lessen.

• 
  

And may they learn resiliency for when my wishes fail them.

Then I rolled over and slept soundly until the sun was in the sky.

30 things to love + poem

The Slow-Cooked Sentence is focusing on my family's summer vacation on the East Coast for the next three Wednesdays, and today features a guest post by my daughter, Chaja.

Photos by Dance in the Kitchen.

Thirty Things to Love about New Jersey
By Chaja Levy

1. Sandy beaches
2. Cousins
3. Low tide
4. Avalon Freeze
5. Smooth rocks
6. Shells
7. Sandcastles
8. Boogie boards
9. Bathing suits
10. Jersey corn
11. Miniature golfing
12. Family
13. Rafts
14. Bay
15. Marsh
16. Birds
17. Sand in my bed
    
18. Eight-seater bike
19. Board walk
20. Carmen's Seafood Restaurant
    
21. Carnival
22. Carousel
23. Salty
24. Red eyes
25. Crab traps
26. Fishing
27. Catching a sand shark
    
28. "Minnies" (minnows used for bait)
29. Flounder
30. Waves

And the list inspired her to write this cinquain:

Hitchhikers
By Chaja Levy

Waiting
there for the tide
to wash them out to sea,
clams close their shells tight and stick out
their thumbs.

Ephemeral

ih-fem-er-ul
adjective

"Morning kitchen" by Max Levy at Dance in the Kitchen.

1. Beginning and ending in a day.
2. Short-lived.

Three cups and a wicked case of jitters later, the ephemeral taste found in my first morning coffee continues to elude me, and so by the afternoon I've switched to tea.

Insult and injury

Scorpion tail tip courtesy of mohd fahmi.

She asked for my bag to search it for stolen library books, and she wanted me to come back inside too. I refused. As if I would willingly walk back into the library with a toddler throwing a tantrum. Stupid woman.

"Feel free to take it," I spat out, struggling to hold on to my angry son.

She blinked at me from behind her glasses, than picked up the bag and marched back in.

“Are we in trouble, Mom?” my older son asked, shrinking himself into the shadows of the building.

I shook my head, silently willing the small, stiff child in my arms to calm down. Instead, he arched his back into the curve of a scorpion’s tail and wailed.

I’d hunted scorpions as a kid. Armed with an empty mayonnaise jar, I’d wander out into the vast stretch of sandy desert that was my backyard and start kicking over cow patties. Scorpions burrow small holes under the dung, flat as a Frisbee, and hide out during the hottest part of the day.

Sometimes, my brother and I would capture five or six at a time. From pincer to tail some of them were longer than my dad’s thumb. Others were small enough to fit on a dime. Of the hundreds of scorpions we captured, grew bored with and released, I remember two: The one found under plywood, whose body alone measured three inches and whose tail was thick as jute, and the mother with a million babies on her back. She got away.

That’s what I wanted to do now, just crawl into a hole as people gave my toddler and his meltdown lots of space. A bitter, angry brew boiled in my belly. I'd been taking my children to this library long enough for a few of the librarians to know us by name, but I didn’t know this one, nor had I paid attention to her face when she stamped our books. Instead, I studied her hands, studded with rings that squeezed her flesh and forced it to ooze around them. Those pale, sticky hands usually busy with musty books and cups of sugared tea were poking through my things, pulling out water bottle, bike helmet, knitting.

"She's taking out your wallet, Mom," my older son reported from his hiding spot near a window. "She dropped it."

I'd given the wallet to my toddler earlier in the day to amuse him, and when it no longer held his attention I'd shoved it into the bag without snapping it shut, so when the librarian picked it up it fell open, spilling coins. Quarters and dimes bounced across the table, tangled in yarn, rolled under the bike helmet. I shot an angry glance through the window, and my jaw tightened, my head throbbed, my arms ached.

Hiding under the helmet, a dime turned from silver to pale yellow and unfurled. A set of tiny pincers snapped and a tail tucked into the belly of armor curved upward to expose a venomous dagger at its tip. On eight small legs it skittered across the table unseen, grabbed hold of the librarian's dress and climbed. When it reached her neck, it slipped under the fold of her collar, clinging to the fabric as she walked outside.

Outside, my toddler lay limp in my arms, exhausted from his tantrum. My son eased himself out of his hiding spot, and my anger drained away.

"It’s going to be okay," I tell them.

Doors opened. The librarian set down the bag, and silently marched back inside, carrying my revenge. Pincers clicked, dagger poised, it waited.

Washington, D.C.

The Slow-Cooked Sentence will focus on my family's summer vacation
on the East Coast for the next four Wednesdays.

"D.C. dining" by Marcel Levy at Dance in the Kitchen.

Baby + boob + Obama's house = Political expression.

Shell by Dance in the Kitchen.

Other cheap eats:

• Hot-dogs from sidewalk vendors.
• The Waffle Shop a.k.a Lincoln House Restaurant.

Photo by dystopos.

"Hey, that's the back of the penny!" one brother said.

"Huh?" asked the second.

"The penny, that's on the back of the penny."

"Ooooh," replied the second. "Let's ask if we can go back to the motel and watch Sponge Bob."

Photo courtesy of Dance in the Kitchen.

Sunday, defined

Photo courtesy of hiromy.

Yesterday was filled with curtains of rain and flash-flood warnings, home-grown plums baked into a buckle, homemade mojitos that knocked me flat, and one beautiful sentence from "The Shadow of the Wind" by Carlos Ruiz Zafon:

"Something about him reminded me of one of those figures from old-fashioned playing cards or the sort used by fortune-tellers, a print straight from the pages of incunabulum: his presence was both funereal and incandescent, like a curse dressed in Sunday best."

I particularly love this: a curse dressed in Sunday best. Isn't it brilliant? I took this thick library book on vacation, and got so wrapped up in its story of love and mystery, murder and redemption that I didn't have a shred of interest in seeing distant relations at the sea. I ignored everything -- Avalon and aunties, cousins and crabbing -- until I finished the book.

Photo courtesy of _e.t.

But once home and the tale told, I still was loathe to return it the library. I didn't want to part with the meandering story and its inhabitants (like the villain Francisco Javier Fumero, described above). I took the book with me on errands and reread favorite sections, but the library put me on notice and fined me for every day I kept it. So I let it go, and by Sunday all that remained were the words about the curse afloat in my rum-and-lime-soaked brain.